


The Fire Cart

by ssclassof56



Series: Agent Pemberley [17]
Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (TV)
Genre: Books, Childhood, Gen, Paris (City)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-20
Updated: 2017-06-20
Packaged: 2018-11-16 17:34:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,022
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11257620
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ssclassof56/pseuds/ssclassof56
Summary: At the Musée des Arts et Métiers, the past becomes unexpectedly personal.





	The Fire Cart

**Author's Note:**

> Written for LiveJournal's Section7MFU - Short Affair Challenge  
> Prompts: wine / white

Napoleon sighed and passed his gaze restlessly over the gallery of aged machines. Across the hall, a nanny shot him a coy glance as she crouched next to her charge, giving the agent a generous view of her white-stockinged legs. He smiled in return and touched a hand to his beret. From the side of his mouth, he said, “And to think we could have had wine, women, and song.”

“We certainly have the whine,” Illya replied, rolling his eyes. He returned his attention to the placard and its description of the imposing locomotive beside them.

Faustina tucked her arm through Napoleon’s and began crooning huskily in French. He interrupted her sultry rendition of ‘I’ve Been Working on the Railroad’ by pressing his finger to her lips. “Thanks, but it’s not the same.” 

The nanny shrugged at this display and, with swaying hips, ushered her charge into the next gallery of the Musée des Arts et Métiers. Napoleon grimaced. “I still don’t see why we all had to come.”

“Mr. Waverly expects us in New York this evening, and you have a bad habit of missing flights.” She poked his shoulder for emphasis. “Especially from Paris.”

“And I won the coin toss,” Illya added with satisfaction.

“We should have gone for two out of three.”

“In which case, we might have ended up in a cemetery.”

Faustina tossed her head in mock affront. “Père Lachaise is lovely in the spring.”

“All of Paris at our disposal,” Napoleon grumbled, “and you two want to wallow in the past.”

She patted his arm. “Now, now. Be patient for a little longer, and Mother will buy you a nice treat from the café.”

At Illya’s snicker, Napoleon frowned more deeply and shook Faustina off his arm. He strolled around to the far side of the locomotive. “You and me both, pal,” he was heard to say.

Faustina followed to find him addressing a dour mannequin in a bicorn hat seated atop a long cart. Her eyes lit up. “Grandmother,” she exclaimed, clapping her hands together.

Napoleon looked from her to the mustachioed mannequin. “Don’t you mean Grandfather?”

“Not the dummy. The fire cart.” 

“Oh, yes.” He admired the rounded boiler at the front of the vehicle and turned back to Faustina. “I see the resemblance.”

She grinned and rolled her shoulders back. “Thank you. I told the sales lady in lingerie, ‘I want the look of a kettle on a fardier à vapeur,’ and she said, ‘My dear, I have just the bra for you.’” She twisted her head to peer down over her shoulder. “Or were you referring to the other end?”

Illya came around the locomotive as Napoleon tilted his head in consideration. “Dare I ask what you two are talking about?”

He checked at the sight of the cart. His eyes grew dreamy, and his lips twisted into a half-smile. He stepped forward and ran a hand over the copper boiler. “Babushka,” he breathed.

“Would one of you care to introduce me to your esteemed ancestress?”

“Not my ancestress. Hers.” He pointed a thumb to the locomotive behind him. “And to all those taxis honking away outside. This is Cugnot’s fire cart.”

“Ah, of course,” Napoleon said, then shook his head. “Now Pontiac’s Firebird, that I can see mooning over. But this?” He waved his hand dismissively. “Top speed: one mile per century.”

“Probably three miles an hour, with level terrain and a good head of steam. However, it is not a question of performance but of progeniture. We are looking at the first self-propelled road vehicle.” He patted the copper affectionately. “Can you not picture her rolling along, led by her huge smoking boiler, like—”

“Like an old lady carrying a pot of soup?” Faustina finished.

Napoleon twisted his lips. “Terrific slogan. They should put that in the ad.”

Illya did not respond. He stared at Faustina. “How did you know?”

“It’s from a book. ‘How the Automobile Learned to Run.’”

“Yes,” he said and repeated the title in Russian. He circled the cart until they stood face to face. “It was one of my favorites.”

“Mine too.”

“But how would you come to read a classic of Soviet children’s literature?”

“Apparently someone published an American edition.”

His eyes narrowed. “Replete with pop-ups and glossy color illustrations, no doubt.”

She chuckled. “Not quite. What was your favorite part?”

“I appreciated the entire book for its wealth of information.” He turned to face the cart. “A most edifying volume.”

“You’re talking like a book report.” She turned as well and nudged him with her shoulder.

A small smile curved his lips. “Probably Babushka here,” he said, “smashing through the stone wall.”

“Dear old Grandmother.” She slanted her eyes towards him. “My favorite was the exploding steam carriage.”

He laughed. “Especially the picture, I am sure.” He leaned his face closer to hers. “Severed heads and all.”

She grinned. “Kids are such gruesome little beasts.”

“Mine would not be.”

“Oh, really? I’ll remind you of that statement someday.”

They smiled at each other companionably, until Faustina gave a short gasp. “Napoleon.”

Illya swung around, surveying the room in a moment. “Gone. No doubt pursuing a date with that nanny.”

“And inevitably missing our flight.” She pulled a receiver from her purse. “I hope he didn’t notice that homing pin.” 

Illya took the device and checked for a signal. “Come, let us catch him before he does.”

With a fond farewell glance at the fire cart, the agents headed back through the museum to the exit. Once in the Square, Illya checked the receiver and steered them up Rue Réaumur. Faustina took his arm, and they blended in with the many Parisian couples.

“Did you have any other favorite books?”

He thought briefly, then said, “I recall one that taught me how to make animals from acorns and matches.”

“I don’t think that one made it to America.”

“It is quite simple. I can show you on the plane using olives and toothpicks.”

She smiled. “We’ll have to drink an awful lot of martinis.”

“Indeed. And Napoleon will be paying for every single one.”


End file.
